


Inspiration

by princess_charles



Category: Mortal Engines Series - Philip Reeve
Genre: I Don't Even Know, ok this is dumb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-13 18:39:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4532958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princess_charles/pseuds/princess_charles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I just read other people's books, and looked at pictures, and made it all up. I wrote 'America the Beautiful' whilst lounging by a hotel swimming-pool on the top tiers of Paris, in the company of a delectable young person named Peaches Zanzibar. Took care to set it all somewhere nice and remote, of course. I never dreamed that anyone would actually want to go there."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inspiration

**Author's Note:**

> Pennyroyal has the idea for America the Beautiful. Just a lil drabbly stopgap I had the idea for a while ago.

I am bored.

Yes, it is excessively nice here, the sun is shining, I have a Blast-Glass tumbler (antique, of course, this is Paris) of fantastically costly brandy at my elbow, and Peaches is her usual stunning self in some vintage Ancient-designed swimsuit called a biniki.

But Poskitt, I am so, so bored.

Being Junior Foreign Correspondent for the Brighton Palimpsest was horribly low-paying, and no better than common drudgery, and the Senior Foreign Correspondent was so patronisingly, condescendingly NICE to me. It was, however, something to do. I am restless now, twitchy feet and itchy fingers and shifty eyes.

I could travel... don't be stupid, Nimrod, you don't have enough cash to get halfway to Airhaven.

Or...

I could write about travelling...

Taking a sip of brandy, I roll over on my sun-lounger so that I'm facing Peaches. "Peachy, my dear girl?" I say.

She sits up and opens her eyes, red-gold hair glinting in the Parisian sun. "Yes, Nimrod?"

"Do you think anyone would read a book about someone who went travelling somewhere?"

Peaches wrinkles her perfect button nose. I press on. "Say, for people who were considering going there themselves and would like to know more about the place."

She rolls her eyes. "Nimrod, you do have the most entertainingly peculiar ideas. Who wants to know all about their holiday spot before they've even got there? I'm terribly sorry, but you'd never make any money."

"I suppose you are right, my angel," I reply, and we lapse back into silence, or at least as near to silence as you'll ever come on a city. The poolwater laps against the edge of the pool; faintly, on the edge of hearing, the city's engines thrum; other guests are chattering inside. It's so tranquil, and so perfect, and I want to scream.

Then another thought strikes me. "Peachy?" I say again.

She doesn't even open her eyes this time. "Yes, Nimrod?" she says, and I think there's a slight edge of exasperation to her voice.

"What if... what if it wasn't, well, exactly true? I mean, if it was less an account of travel than a travelling adventure." Ideas are pouring into my head now. There could be an airship crash... the main character the only survivor... natives? No, that would be impossible to fit with the setting, everywhere's been discovered. I realise Peaches is still watching. "A sort of novel," I explain. "One man's heroic travels in... in..." There must be somewhere. I rack my brain desperately, but nothing presents itself. 'Heroic travels' can't just be set in Murnau, or London, or Xanne-Sandansky. Cairo might work, but there are scholars that speak Anglish there who might read the thing and spot the, ah, manipulation of truth.

Then it hits me. An idea worthy of the great Ancient explorer-god Indiana Jones, something so fantastical it'll never have the chance to be disproved, something so outrageous every person on every city on the planet will believe it.

America.

I wouldn't even need to go anywhere, I could - for Poskitt's sake, I could even write it right here on this very sun-lounger. Valentine's been there, and Chung-Mai Spofforth wrote that book about Snowmads, and the Paris library probably has a copy of old Snorri Whatshisname's map of Vineland. Instincts reluctantly developed in service to the Brighton Palimpsest are kicking in as I rise from the lounger, Peaches calling bewilderedly after me, and I'm already listing sources and plot points in my head. Bear attack - no, starvation - no, radiation poisoning - whatever else happens I still want the savages - 

This is going to be brilliant.

**Author's Note:**

> Holy crap, this is the first fic I've ever published! I actually got around to writing something! Hopefully more to come, I have a whole list of drabble ideas. Let me know what you think.


End file.
